


Bed of Jerseys

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aggression, Gen, Goalies, Nesting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was Fleury, he'd know him anywhere, but from just a glance Murray could see something was off. He was completely immobile, head down and glove braced against the sidebar. Beneath his pads, Murray could see the goalie was hiding an accumulating mass of equipment. The black and gold suggested jerseys, but Murray could also see a few pucks, gloves, and what looked like skate laces or yarn piled on top of the ice.





	Bed of Jerseys

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven’t entirely fleshed out the goalie nesting concept, but for what it’s worth I spent an entire day researching animal nesting habits. Both are weird, so why not combine them (I originally wanted to stick to just penguins but that would go beyond implied romance and I wasn't sure how people would take it, ha)
> 
> I have no idea what this is but take it anyways.

Something about that morning seemed off right from the word "go".

 

Which was weird, because usually when things went wrong it happened right smack in the middle of a game, or when the team was travelling, but never on the morning of an "optional" practice. Though most players attended said practices by default, they were quieter, more centred around self-improvement than boisterous egotism, and as a result, lacked the usual urgency that would make them butt heads on ice. Murray lost count of how many times he'd had an awful day during a game, but practices, despite the earliness of them, tended to be a time when the team truly bonded without the pressure of upsetting the hundreds of fans crammed into one arena.

 

With the Pens racking up an impressive number of goalies to tuck away during games, it was practically a requirement he attend practice. He never saw any action in game, and even if he did see time on the ice he would never have a moment to stop and consult Fleury on techniques until the other team had scored or he was unfortunate enough to strain a limb. For that reason alone, he predicted he'd have no trouble waking up in the morning. The importance of the practice overshadowed everything else, including an extra hour of sleep.

 

But, as luck would have it, his alarm didn't go off, and thus began a snowball effect. It should have been an indicator that the morning was only going to get worse, and if the mishap with his alarm was too subtle, then the sight of Captain Canada himself crouched worriedly in the corner of the locker room should have planted red flags deep into his cornea.

 

At first his shifting in place made it seem like he’d been slammed against the boards again, so Murray paid him no heed and began the process of dragging equipment out of his bag in preparation for a long morning. The locker room only had a few other men still inside, most of them already fully dressed, so Murray was able to block the chatter out and focus on getting dressed. And he did, a bit too well, as he had no idea his captain was trying to get his attention until the man had to pat his shoulder not once, but twice.

 

He dropped his untied skate laces and met his unsure look with a similar one, albeit with more confusion mixed in. The ends of Crosby’s mouth were turned in a hidden frown, and for a second, his brain filled in the gaps, suggesting that Crosby was there to scold him for his tardiness. However, the seconds ticked by and Crosby remained eerily quiet, prompting Murray to take charge.

 

“Uh,” he started awkwardly, “d’y’need something?” In an attempt to make it less awkward, he picked up the laces on his right skate and yanked back harder than usual, if only to keep his hands busy and to unconsciously give him an excuse to look away.

 

“Yeah,” Crosby said, “yeah, it’s, uh, it’s about Flower.”

 

The combination of the look and the low volume forced Murray to consider injury the culprit. “Is it bad? How long will he be out?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

 

At that, Crosby reared back. “Huh? Wait, no, no it’s not that,” he laughed humourlessly to himself, “the thing is, he’s out there, but we can’t use ‘im. You uh, know about the whole nesting thing right? I don’t have to explain it to you?”

 

 _Oh_. “Oh. He’s alright, right?”

 

“Yeah he’s good. Well, as good as can be out there considering, y’know. We were unsuccessful in getting him off the ice so we’re gonna split the rink fifty fifty and pelt you and Tishy for today. Thought it would be good to warn you.”

 

“Of course.” He didn’t expect anything different. “I’ll be there," he said, seeing Crosby's face dawn in approval. The captain patted his thighs and stood up, walking in the direction of the door. Murray returned to lacing his skates.

 

“Oh, and uh, Muzz?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“If you notice any of your equipment missing, don’t panic. Flower’s kind of notorious for nabbing towels and the like when he goes nesting, so it’ll be in the back of the net when you get on the ice.” He smiled as he said it, and it was hard not to mimic it at the image of Fleury tucked away in a net filled with his teammates’ belongings. Murray made a throaty noise to show he’d heard and then turned his attention back to his skates, anxious to get away from the superstitious air choking the dressing room.

 

If the conversation with Crosby didn’t snap him back into awareness then the first slap of cool air when he entered the rink did. The familiar smell of the arena accompanied by the noise of slaps and yelling awoke an indescribable feeling inside of Muray's stomach alike that of nostalgia. On the ice, Zatkoff could already be seen blocking shots and chirping players on the half of the ice closest to their box, and a handful of men were talking strategy along the boards, only stopping to high five teammates that skated by. Everything looked normal, but something about the quiet ushered in by the empty stands and locked doors made the place feel empty, even foreboding.

 

Eager to make up for his lateness, Murray wasted no time with shouldering past the rookies lined up in front of the bench and hopping onto the ice. The easy maneuverability that came with mounting the ice carried him forward, weaving in and out of his colleagues, a few of which whom were content with staring ahead and gossiping among themselves like they were back in middle school.

 

When he followed their eyes to the other half of the ring the first thing he saw was a couple of linesmen lazily skating by the blue line, but behind them there was no mistaking the black form pressed up against the net. It was Fleury, he'd know him anywhere, but from just a glance Murray could see something was off. He was completely immobile, head down and catch glove braced against the sidebar. Beneath his pads, Murray could see the goalie was hiding an accumulating mass of equipment. The black and gold suggested jerseys, but Murray could also see a few pucks, gloves, and what looked like skate laces or yarn piled on top of the ice.

 

Stick in hand, he carried on gliding lethargically, eyes on the man, until he quite literally ran in Zatkoff. The initial impact swept him off his skates, but the other goalie was quicker, quite literally catching Murray with his catch glove and setting him back on his feet.

 

“Oi, earth to Muzz, are you just gonna ignore me?” Zatkoff teased, patting his back a bit harsher than necessary. He was idly playing with his stick in one hand, following Murray’s eyes to the offending goalie on the other half of the ice.

 

“Ah, so you’ve found our stowaway. You haven’t missed anything; he’s been like that all morning.”

 

“It’s my first time seeing this,” he admitted, finally turning to look Zatkoff in the eye, “the whole nesting thing.”

 

Zatkoff didn’t look surprised. “I thought so. It’s usually kept between goalies.”

 

“Is it common?” he couldn’t help but ask.

 

“Not common, no. For goalies it’s usually an annual thing, but it’s no different from the other quirks that different positions have. You don’t see it as much because there’s rules about letting nesting goalies play during games. This just something Flower’ll do, and perhaps you too, if his habits rub off on you more than mine.” He winked, and Murray shifted his feet.

 

“Will he block shots or is he just gonna idle there?”

 

“Oh he’ll block ‘em, usually keep ‘em too. If Sid’s really confident he might take a few shots, but he keeps most rookies away on account of what happened to Dumoulin a year back. Got too close on accident and Flower went after him.”

 

Murray bit the inside of his cheek. “Did he hurt him?”

 

“Scared him shitless,” he laughed, “but no, it was more a spook than anything. I had to interfere, and trust me, it wasn’t fun hauling him off.” He pulled his mask back and scratched at his beard. “But when you’re under you don’t know what’s up and what’s down. His instincts told him to attack the boy, but he wouldn’t have done it if he’d been in the right state of mind.”

 

“Yeah,” he trailed off, throat dry.

 

“Hey.” Zatkoff patted his shoulder. “You know Brian, he didn’t dwell on it, neither should you. Our team needs us right now, and staring at Flower is just gonna make him paranoid.”

 

“Mhm,” he hummed. Zatkoff slid his helmet back on and tilted his head in the direction of the empty net, which was already adding up pucks by the second.

 

“Looks like we best be going.” And that was that.

 

He didn't know what he thought practice with a nesting goalie at the other side of the ice would be like, but it was definitely less eventful than whatever was going on in his head. His position at net gave him the perfect opportunity to ogle Fleury, but besides leaving the net occasionally to pace back and forth he goalie was mostly stationary.

 

It gave him time to think, and the longer he watched, the more creative his mind became with its theories and predictions. There’d been his own cravings during practices and games when he could remember shaving the ice around the crease especially deep as if to establish his boundaries, but it’d never been to the severity of robbing the belongings of his teammates and baring his teeth at his own captain. Something sharp was piercing his heart as the thoughts festered, bringing with them the image of himself on the other end, mind set to nest and protect his net at any cost.

 

The thoughts had been so consuming that he let a few easy shots through, his effort deteriorating as the mock game continued. He originally tried to brush it off as a symptom of morning exhaustion, but it became harder to ignore as the goals racked up and his performance didn’t improve. It only escalated until he had been scored on for the seventh time in a row and Crosby outright ordered him to take a break, which he begrudgingly followed through on.

 

The linesmen had split to practice strides among themselves, leaving Murray to follow Zatkoff like a lost puppy. He looked rather amused when the rookie stopped beside him, pulling his helmet up to flash a toothy smile back at Murray.

 

“Nesting fever gettin’ to you too?” Zatkoff has asked, chucking his head back to squirt water into his mouth.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause I look like that,” he droned, nodding his head in the direction of Fleury.

 

“Hey, talking from experience here, sometimes you can leech the urge to nest from a fellow teammate, and you don’t know until you got it.”

 

“Oh really?” he asked dryly. The thoughts came flooding back, though he tried to hide it behind a look of boredom.

 

“Honest. It never feels weird. It feels,” he swished his water around as he waited for the words to come to him, “like it’s normal. Like everyone else is being unreasonable. And hey, Flower ain’t _that_ bad. Back when I was with the Kings Joner always went ballistic when he nested. Compared to him, Flower is pretty tame.” Murray nodded along numbly, only half paying attention.

 

The silence that followed killed any hope of a response for either of them. It was borderline awkward, even if Murray appreciated Zatkoff’s attempts to familiarize him with the foreign idea of nesting. There was simply no way of vocalizing it without straining the conversation. Luckily, Zatkoff must have realized, because his small smile had returned, and he was making his way back to the net.

 

“Take a break and clear your mind, last thing we need are two empty nets, eh?” he laughed, before leaving the rookie at the benches and to his rapidly multiplying thoughts.

 

Personally, Murray couldn’t see himself going narrow minded for several days, but then again, never could he see the level-headed Flower doing it either. Or any goalie, regardless of how quirky they were. As he situated himself back in his net he found himself looking at the red bars again, grazing over the dings and scratches obscuring the paint. Was that really what Fleury’s instincts demand he protect; a scrawny, used net?

 

From there practice became redundant. The team being forced to adapt to such a small space was mostly to blame, but someone higher up thought repetitiveness was the key to improvement that morning. By the tenth pass in his direction shootouts were starting to look pretty reasonable, and Murray could feel the drowsiness from the late awakening start to return.

 

Fleury also seemed bored, leaving the net more often and occasionally growling when players got too close. Every once in a while he’d link eyes with Murray and he’d spread his body out to hide the net from sight. Murray never accepted the challenge, fear coursing through his body at the thought of Fleury throwing his gloves down and skating over, and instead opting to send his eyes downcast and deflate under the scrutiny.

 

Besides the threat looming over the team from just a few feet away, time seemed to slug by. Goaltending took a backseat to defence drills and passing, and Murray saw a lot less usage once focus left the nets. His thighs were still strained from shooting, but it wasn’t the same satisfying burn he was used it. Zatkoff had tried to fill in for Fleury during that time, but he could tell the other man was just as distracted as he was once he had all eyes on him.

 

Crosby at least seemed pleased that the other members of team had gotten their act together, and that was likely the reason why practice (thankfully) shifted from defence to shootouts. Murray had assumed that meant he and Zatkoff would see some action, but to his surprise, the captain completely avoided the net and instead turned to face Fleury head on.

 

“Oh no,” Zatkoff said, once he clued in. He tilted his head in the direction of the blue line and left before Murray had even finished his recovery practice, leaving the younger goalie to scramble after him.

 

The team had formed a line at the centre, pucks kicked around until the black circles littered the rink like polka dots. Younger teammates had been pushed back, while more notorious faces like Malkin and Letang hovered around Crosby. By now Fleury appeared to have put the pieces together and dropped the wandering act to stand dead centre in the net. He even took the time to slam his stick down in a familiar, but more violent taunt at his captain.

 

If it bothered Crosby, he didn’t show it. He stood as confident as usual, back straight as a ruler and stick twirling in his right hand. Fleury, on the other hand, looked increasingly uncomfortable, though his growls were still going strong.

 

Crosby played with the puck, stare unblinking, before he lunged forward as though the hounds of hell were biting at his heels. Fleury immediately left the confines of the net, and for a terrifying second, Murray wondered if he would leave the crease and bowl Sidney over. Crosby seemed to think so too, and he made an unpredictable dodge to the left, catching the goalie by surprise. The puck shot up and looked ready to strike the top of the net where Fleury had been left open, but the goalie was faster. His catch glove shot up and caught it in less than a second, the following snarl nothing short of mocking. He stood up on his skates, looking ready to chase the too-close Crosby, but the man proved too fast, hugging the boards along the side before returning to his team empty handed.

 

“Well then,” he huffed, “who’s next?” Murray could hear the few volunteers from where he was leaning up against the box. Zatkoff was laughing, though at what, he had no idea.

 

With Fleury still prowling in his peripheral vision, the uneasy feeling in his belly only growing. While nesting it was clear he was at his best, and made good practice, but the pucks only looked to be aggravating him. He went from catching and blocking to sending them back, faking out the players that chose to stand their ground.

 

If Zatkoff told him to loosen up, he didn’t hear him.

 

“Ey Willy, you’re up!” Tanger crowed, passing the puck that had narrowly missed stabbing him in the shins. Wilson caught it with ease. He dribbled it between the blades of his stick, waiting for Malkin to clear the ice and pave a path to Fleury.

 

With two strong pushes, he picked up speed, gently guiding the puck in front of him as he approached the goaltender. Fleury crouched, but rather than move forward to face him head on, instead chose to back up until he was fully inside his self-proclaimed nest.

 

Puck dangling in near reach of Fleury, Wilson only kept picking up speed, even as the net only seemed to get closer. Murray could feel himself clench his teeth together for the man as Fleury pressed his pads together and spat out an insult. Wilson was only a couple feet away from Fleury when he finally slanted his stick and prepared to slam the puck into the mass of equipment behind the goalie.

 

But he had waited too long, and Fleury’s decision to stay in place meant by the time Wilson’s stick was up in the air he had already showered the net in a spray of ice shavings, the crease’s blue paint pale under all the white. Wilson was forced to grab the sidebar to slow down, the momentum forcing him to push it back a few inches.

 

Time froze. All Murray could see were the two black jerseys, the hulking mass that was Fleury reflecting that of a predator circling his prey. Wilson looked scared out of his mind, eyeing Fleury’s stick like it was a pistol, before realizing the bad position he had gotten himself into. He was pinned between the goalie and his net.

 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Zatkoff shoved Murray aside and dashed forward as fast as he could, daring to break the line of men watching the scene unfold. Murray felt compelled to follow and assist him, but when he noticed most of his teammates frozen in place, doubt smacked him in the side of the head. A wounded noise left him, and he looked for Crosby, Malkin, anyone with experience to see what they were doing, but everyone looked just as frigid as he was. Some even called out to Zatkoff, asking him to return on the slim chance that Fleury was just going to give Wilson angry eyes until he backed off.

 

Fleury didn’t seem inclined to do so, and when he did lash out, he made sure it was before Wilson had time to slip away. His dive sent the both of them sprawling out onto the ice, and once Wilson was trapped, Fleury began to mercilessly throw him about. He accompanied the shoves with weak punches to his back and shoulder, pressing down on the body underneath him when the man tried to squirm out of his hold.

 

Wilson’s shouts for help commenced before Fleury had landed his first hit, and after it happened Crosby had split from the fold, immediately recognizing the threat for what it was. With him followed three others, all intending to help Zatkoff, who by now had one arm wrapped around Fleury’s shoulder, yanking him back.

 

Out of loyalty to both Zatkoff and Fleury, Murray left obliged to follow too, more so when the fighting began to escalate. Zatkoff had succeeded with tearing the goalie off of Wilson, but in doing so had painted a bright red target on his forehead. Fleury whipped around, uttering a round of what sounded like French gibberish before throwing himself at him. Zatkoff chose that moment to freeze up, as if he realized he had just brought all of Fleury’s anger on him and regretted it. It left him vulnerable.

 

Fleury took up his stick in one hand and cracked it against Zatkoff’s leg along the portion that his pads didn’t cover. It sent the man backing away with a howl, his body folding in half over his stomach so that he could grab his leg. Murray was half way across when it happened, the other players already trying to drag Wilson away while Fleury was distracted.

 

“Tish! God, are you alright?” he asked, reaching out as soon as he was close enough to console him, though his hands seemed unsure of whether to pat his friend’s shoulder or check the place of impact. More of the team had split, though it was clear they were heading over to escort Zatkoff, and not to interfere with Fleury’s instinct fuelled rage.

 

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he hissed, “it’s nothing, just get him off and I’ll help Willy.”

 

“No, you head back to the bench. Sid will look after Willy,” he replied, urging Zatkoff in the direction of help. The man clearly wanted to protest, but Murray didn’t have time to convince him that he was injured, not when Fleury was still at risk. He turned his back on Zatkoff and made quick work dropping his gloves so he could wrap his arms around the nesting goalie’s waist. From there, it was as simple as leaning back and hoisting him up.

 

Despite being smaller than him, Fleury still fought like a demon, trying to get in every possible dirty blow. Murray made sure to stomp down on the goalie’s stick with his skate so that he couldn’t repeat his treatment of Zatkoff again, but the act only irritated Fleury further. He swung his arm out, almost hitting Crosby, who was in the process of lifting up the incapacitated Wilson, and instead hitting the cage protecting Murray’s forehead. He tried to tighten his grip and pull Fleury back to give Crosby room to work, but it left himself vulnerable to various kicks and backhanded punches.

 

“Easy, Flower, easy! Tish just wanted to take him away- Sid’s gonna get Willy out of here, it’s gonna be fine,” he stumbled, though it looked to have gone in one ear and out the other. Fleury never relented his attempts to usurp his rookie, even managing to knock his helmet loose with a well placed elbow to the head.

 

Murray hissed. “Hey, c’mon, calm down. He’s gone, he’s not going near the net, it’s fine,” he tried again, making the decision to skate around to Fleury’s front so that he was obscuring the man’s vision of Wilson and Crosby. Fleury responded by jumping forward on his skates, bumping chests with Murray and forcing him back.

 

Winded, he barely had the mind to grab ahold of Fleury’s upper arm and tug him close, enough so that if he continued his pursuit of Wilson he would need to drag Murray along too. His fingers curled in the fabric of the jersey and held on tight, almost as if he were reigning in a horse. All of the outside noise had culminated to inaudible shouting, the bench long since given enough time to get additional help from outside the rink.

 

Fleury tried a couple more times to lash out after that, but by that point Murray had got another hand on him and was holding tight, praying under his breath that Wilson was skating out of sight of Fleury so he could let go and run. His body was running on pure adrenaline at that point, and even with two fistfuls of jersey anchoring him to Fleury he felt powerless over the situation.

 

In the crevices of his mind, his brain offered one simple solution : bring Fleury to his net, his nest, what he’d been protecting in the first place. Maybe if he saw it was still in tact the fight would fall apart and he’d listen to reason. It sounded reasonable, but his body was working against him at that point.

 

Squeezing the last ounces of strength out of him, Murray began to shove Fleury back with his own jersey, trying to look over his shoulder to locate where the net had been kicked to. The gush of French that followed was half-growled, but he didn’t retaliate like Murray had expected. Fleury let himself be prodded back, eyes glued to the rookie, but his hands at his side.

 

Murray couldn’t have been happier when he saw dull red paint of the sidebar. It was practically gleaming, a godsend for troubled goaltenders having to babysit men older than they were.

 

Some of the items inside the nest had been freed, but they were a secondary priority. Murray busied himself with first grabbing the closest part of the net and then pulling it back. He was half afraid that with only one hand on him, Fleury would find something else to take offense in and break away, but to give him credit the held his mouth, and his eyes, away from the other players. It gave Murray a second to breathe and drag the net back to the crease.

 

Fleury stayed in his hold when he put it back, and remained connected even as Murray picked up the various objects and tucked them into the bed of jerseys. Assembling the nest took no longer than a minute, but in that time Fleury had subdued to a mellow, almost sheepish, appearance instead of the big bad wolf he’d been imitating earlier. Any traces of the goalie who had attacked Wilson had left with the man and those that had witnessed it, the ice betraying no evidence of a scuffle besides for a few deep cuts.

 

In the wake of the fight, most players had cleared the rink, determining that practice was over. The quiet from earlier had returned, and accompanied with the bad after taste from the fight it made Murray overenthusiastic to get away from the ice and under the covers where he could sleep off the physical strain. His left hand released the handful of jersey he’d been using as a leash, leaving Fleury free to roam.

 

He thought Fleury would return to his nest now that he was pacified, but the goalie didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he continued inspecting the rookie, eyes dark on the other side of the birdcage. When Murray moved to skate to the box, he jolted, as if broken from a trance, and made to intercept the man’s movements with his body, leaving them chest to chest.

 

Up close, Fleury looked less like a crazed goalie and more like Marc-Andre. Murray's hands moved back to grip the sidebar again, and the action only appeared to goad Fleury. He tried moving forward, trapping Murray against the net just like he’d done to Wilson. The close proximity only brought with it a wave of anxiety, and he tried to make it known on his face.

 

If he saw, Fleury didn’t act on it. He tried again to close the gap between the two but Murray backed away, eyeing the man’s fists. At that, Fleury made a frustrated noise, upset that the other goalie was fleeting. If he pushed again there would be no where for Murray to go but down, and he didn’t fancy the claustrophobic feeling that would come from a webbed prison chock full of other people’s stuff.

 

The next time Fleury came closer, Murray slipped out through the side. It wasn’t hard to stay out of Fleury’s way, especially when he was smaller in comparison, but for a second he swore he could feel the ghost of a hand follow him. He turned on his skates immediately to maintain eye contact, shoulders tense in preparation for Fleury to breakaway and come after him with fire and fury.

 

He didn’t. He sounded like a wounded animal when Murray pulled away, but he didn’t give chase. As if he was rooted to his nest, he looked like he was trying to pull away, but couldn’t; sewn to his responsibility. Murray took a deep breath, content with watching until he was sure. He only looked away to pick up his discarded helmet, securing it under his arm so that it wouldn't fall victim to the nest.

 

And then he was skating away, turning his back on the other net. There was only a handful of people still left, but so long as one of them had eyes on him he knew he was safe. He didn’t look back again to see if Fleury had moved, but he knew for a fact he was watching the whole time, an overbearing concoction of emotions brewing behind the mask.

 

Inside the dressing room, one of the first things Murray saw was Zatkoff, still covered head to toe in gear and leaning against his stall with a foreign look in his eyes. When Murray got closer the look disappeared and was replaced with a small smile.

 

"You alright?" he asked, placing his helmet down beside him. Zatkoff shook his head like he were a dog.

 

"Just a bruise, he gave it his best shot though. Thanks for stepping in."

 

"It was nothing. You were there before anyone else."

 

"True, but you stuck around. Flower'll appreciate that when he comes around."

 

Murray looked up from where he was undoing the buckles of his pads. "You think so? He seemed ready to push me into the net after you cleared the ice.”

 

"It's rare for a nesting goalie to not go after any and all intruders. If he was willing to keep you close to it, then it shows a great deal of trust. Or overprotectiveness, I mean, you _are_ his rookie. It’s anybody’s guess.“

 

"Ah," he hummed, inwardly feeling warm at the revelation. For a brief moment, his thighs felt a bit less sore, and the buzzing in his ears had quieted down. There was little that couldn't be healed by the knowledge that Fleury trusted him.

 

"Speak of the devil," Zatkoff mumbled, and Murray didn't even bother looking up to confirm his suspicions. He held onto that warm feeling inside and continued stripping down, even when he felt the other goalie glance in their direction. He could see Zatkoff motion to the nester in his peripheral vision, and it must have been a request, because it sent him on his way.

 

When Murray looked up, he saw Fleury standing in front of Wilson. His head was slightly bowed, staring down at the injuries of his own making. Not that Wilson was that banged up. He had one arm crossed on his chest, but there were no bandages in sight, and he didn’t look like he was in much pain. Fleury didn’t say anything, but Wilson nodded regardless, giving him a small thumbs-up with his free hand.

 

It was good enough for Fleury. He turned away and began making his way back to Zatkoff and Murray, head still down and hands twirling what were definitely laces in his hands. By then Murray had stripped down to his undergarments and Zatkoff was in the process of pulling his jersey over his head, momentarily hiding him from the silent exchange.

 

Fleury stood over Murray, eyes still as bold as the had been on the ice. His hands reached out to clasp Murray's, squeezing once, before letting them fall just as quickly. The ends of his eyes crinkled; it made it look like he was squinting, but it changed the boldness to something like gratitude.

 

Murray didn't nest, hadn't nested, and he was still rather clueless when it came to that kind of unspoken communication, but he didn’t want to let Fleury know. He nodded back, and he must have done something right, because Fleury smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to find a balance between leaving Murray in the dark and explaining things so the story made sense. Animals tend to be very finicky when it comes to nests, but certain species of penguin will actively invite others into their nests if they prove they're not a threat. Good 'ol Flower was caught between defending his territory and shielding his rookie.


End file.
